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No banner from the lonely tower

Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high ; There the tall grass and summer flower

Unmark'd shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear

Shall wake the harp once loved by thineHush'd be the strain thou canst not hear,

Last of a mighty line !

THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clantonald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “ To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. - See the Quarterly Review article of “ Culloden Papers.")

THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG.

CHIEFTAINS, lead on ! our hearts beat high

Lead on to Salem's towers ! Who would not deem it bliss to die,

Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb'd but shrined, 0 Palestine !

OH, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot !
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the

spot, Wespared not one moment to murmur "Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, "To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief !”

Souls of the slain in holy war !

Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,

To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang's power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

And wildly, Clanronald ! we echo'd the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our

hand ; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now. For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,

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Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone!
He dwells on earth, while thou in life's full prido

art gone !

All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
Is in each ravaged home th' avenging one had

been.

XIII.

The Chastener's hand is on us—we may weep,
But not repine—for many a storm hath pass 'd,
And, pillow'd on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plain,
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ;
While she, that regal daughter of the main,
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath !
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky,
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.

XI.

The sun goes down in beauty-his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellow'd rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight.
They smile and fade-but, when the day is o'er,
What slow procession moves with measured

tread?
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more,
A solemn train-the mourners and the dead !
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.

XIV. But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar'd aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them—is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust

returns.

Her voice hath been th' awakener--and her name
The gathering-word of nations. In her might,
And all the awful beauty of her fame,
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light.
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood,
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower-
That torch whose flame, far streamingo'er the flood,
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour.
Away, vain dreams of glory!--in the dust
Be humbled, Ocean-queen ! and own thy sentence

just !

XII.

Hark! 'twas the death-bell's note ! which, full

and deep, Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone! Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart !

XV. We moun—but not thy fate, departed One ! We pity—but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o'er us__"the bright day is done," And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thoughtHe, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy

worth?

1 " I saw him last on this terrace proud,

Walking in health and gladness ;
Begirt with his court--and in all the crowd

Not a single look of sadness.

“ The time since he walk'd in glory thus,

To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to us,

But to him a night unvaried.

XVI. Oh! there are griefs for nature too intenso, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul ; Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seald bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony !

1 “ The bright day is done,

And we are for the dark."-SHAKSPZARE,

“A daughter beloved--a queen-a son

And a son's sole child had perish'd; And sad was each heart, save the only one

By which they were fondest cherish'd."

-"The Contrast," written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Ilorace Smith, Esq.

Its death-like torpor vanish'd--and its doom,
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's

bloom.

And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone,
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.

XXI.

XVII.

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,

down Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall’d!

Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall’d. Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. Years may pass on- --and, as they roll along, Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;

vain, Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind

And in their hours of loneliness-be near ! Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple Blest was thy lot e'en here--and one faint sigh, shrined.

Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that blest

eternity!

XVIII.

2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee:
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal,
But all it was-oh! never more shall be.
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter snow,
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return,
The faded cheek again with health may glow,
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn;
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom,
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.

XIX.

But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er,
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run;
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more,
Tells that thy crown-though not on earth-is won.
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known
Nought but the bloom and sunshine-and for thee,
Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth? and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given :
It is enough for earth to catch oneglimpse of heaven.

“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemaus' acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chose subjects ; -- they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Veganames embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants ; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again constrained' to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The • Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language :

"No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc. --Vide page 55.

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye,
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die !
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm'd by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last !

1 “The course of true love never did run smooth."

SHAKSPEARE.

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